Postscript
by writersseoul
Summary: Trevor/OC. Two sisters, still struggling to find their way after losing their parents at a young age, are dragged into the LS crime scene by a specific trio and the two find their own form of solace in the most unlikely of places. Rating may go up.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Hello, everyone, and thank you for deciding to give** _ **Postscript**_ **a chance! It is much appreciated! Constructive feedback is more than welcome, as I'm always trying to better my writing! This story is my first time writing (other than poetry) in years after dealing with some personal issues. Hopefully, this runs smoothly. I have a rough outline of the story and how it will end, but no idea how we'll get there. So for now, I hope you enjoy the ride and bear with me on this little project of mine!**

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post·script (pōstˌskript) _noun._ an additional remark at the end of a letter, after the signature and introduced by "P.S."

 **Los Santos, 2004**

"I wanted to be a ballerina."

My sister's soft voice awakened me from my peaceful slumber, plunging me back into the harsh reality that we now lived in. I lifted my head and stared at where she sat across from me, knees tucked to her chest as she tried to find some comfort in the empty dumpster we had found refuge in from the rain. Her forehead rested against her knees, her face hidden from my view. All I could see was her dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders in thick wavy clumps. She didn't look up at me; if not for the sound of her voice awakening me only moments prior, I'd have questioned whether or not she was still awake.

"I miss mom," she added, and for the first time I began to feel guilty for not allowing my younger sister the time and support needed to grieve such a tremendous and devastating loss. My entire focus had been her physical needs: food, water, shelter. I had completely forgotten her emotional and psychological needs, and for that she suffered a wound which I knew it was too late to mend.

"I miss her too," I replied, trying to offer the ten year old some type of solace from her grief. It was true. I could still hear my mother's voice, smell her perfume, feel her arms wrapped around me tightly. It was still hard to accept that we would no longer hear, smell, or touch her ever again.

"You didn't even cry." She allowed herself one quick glance at me before she put her head back down, hugging her knees closer to her heart as if they'd manage to hold the brittle pieces of it together before it shattered completely. "You didn't cry."

"I wanted to. God, I wanted to," I admitted, my voice cracking. "But there was no time." I reached out to stroke her bushy hair, but before I could touch her, she was looking back up at me, eyes fiery beneath the layer of tears.

"You always say that," she whispered, wet lines racing each other down her already damp cheeks. "You always say there's no time. There's never any time for anything anymore." She was angry, I could tell, but her voice hid it well. I didn't blame her for being angry at me. She had every right to be. We were living such a fast paced lifestyle, she didn't even have time to say proper goodbyes to our mother before we cremated her and haphazardly scattered what was left of her remains into the Pacific Ocean. I had denied her what little closure she could have had, and to make matters worse, I hadn't even realized it until it was much too late. The damage was already done. The trauma and scars showed through even in the darkness of the dumpster.

"I could've been a ballerina," my sister lamented her misfortune. Whether it was to herself or to me, I could no longer tell. I assumed it to be a mixture of both.

"You still can be," I assured her. "Once we get all of this taken care of, you still can be a ballerina."

Her breath hitched in her throat before she allowed herself to lie on the cold, wet surface beside me, resting her hands beneath her head to cushion it. "But when all of this is finally over," she began, "will I even still want to be a ballerina?"


	2. Chapter 1

post·script (pōstˌskript) _noun._ an additional remark at the end of a letter, after the signature and introduced by "P.S."

 **2013, 9 years later**

I had no idea whether hell existed or not, but I imagined it looked something like an inebriated Caroline Carson dancing barefoot atop my marbled countertop, dried vomit staining the skin-tight white dress that she donned proudly. Her dark brown hair hung limply in sweaty wisps, glued to the perimeter of her face in salty clumps. Her eyes were bloodshot red; whether from crying in her alcohol induced stupor or from whatever drugs she had chosen to take for the day, I couldn't quite tell. The old Caroline, the one that cried with me in the bottom of a cold dumpster was gone, only a remnant of the new Caroline. Old Caroline was a phantom I could seldom catch on the rare occasion that my sister was sober. _That_ Caroline, a stark contrast from the woman belting Britney Spears' _Gimme More_ along with the radio (while shaking her backside in a manner that would have made our mother roll over in her grave had she been given one), wanted to go to school, wanted to become a forensic pathologist. Wanted to make something of herself. She was just hard to find under the Los Santos party image she tried voraciously to keep up with.

"Caroline Carson!" I shouted sternly, trying to mimic our late mother as best as I could, "you come down from that countertop right this instant!" The words sounded rehearsed, as if read from a script, and Caroline could tell they didn't sound quite right coming from my lips. I watched my sister pause momentarily, cocking her head to the side as she looked me up and down, trying to discern whether or not I was an appropriate authoritative figure to comply with. She must have decided that I wasn't, as she turned away and continued to sing at the top of her lungs.

"Caroline!" I repeated, this time struggling to raise my voice over both her obnoxious singing and the radio. "Caroline, you're too loud! Come down from there before someone files a noise complaint!" In response, she flipped her middle finger at me and continued dancing eratically. I dropped my briefcase at the door and stormed over to where the radio sat on the floor, yanking the cord from where it was plugged in the socket. Caroline let out a deep exasperated groan, a homage to her teenaged self, before she crossed her arms and glared at me, still standing atop the marble countertop that was now host to an assortment of smeared, sweaty footprints.

"The fuck is your problem?" she spat at me, venom laced in every syllable.

"What's _my_ problem? Caroline, what's _your_ problem?!" I shot back at her, feeling searing hot anger rise from the pit of my stomach. "You're supposed to be in class right now, y'know, _studying._ Instead, I get a call from Mrs. Nicholson warning me that you're drunk and threatening to kill yourself!"

At the sound of Mrs. Nicholson's name, Caroline rolled her eyes and plopped down on the countertop, her bare legs dangling off the side. "She's such a nosy bitch," Caroline muttered. "She should mind her own business. If I was gonna kill myself, I would've by now. Its not like you're ever around to stop me."

That hurt. "Don't say things like that, Caroline. She's just worried about you, you know that. There's no telling what you'd do after-" I stopped myself, adverting my gaze to the empty bottles of Pisswasser that rested on the kitchen tile. I wouldn't address the part about me working too much. How could I? "How about a compromise: if you know you're not going through with it and you don't want people calling me, just don't say things like that. These walls are thin, all the neighbors can hear you. Of course one of them is bound to say something to me. It just so happened that this time it was Mrs. Nicholson."

"It's _always_ Mrs. Nicholson," Caroline corrected me, rolling her eyes overdramatically as she drawled over the word _always_. Caroline could've been an actress if she wasn't too busy chasing alcohol and taking drugs.

"Because she cares about you," I retorted as I walked over to the sink and flipped the tap, waiting for the water to warm up. "We're lucky she calls _me_ instead of the _landlord_. I'm not sure about you, but I'd prefer a warm apartment to a cold dumpster any day." Caroline cringed a bit at that, and it wasn't until after the words left my mouth that I realized exactly what I'd said. Caroline didn't think back to our dumpster days; I tried my hardest not to mention them, but every so often the words would slip out like raindrops on a sunny day. It was those times that I caught a glimpse of Old Caroline in the new, a bittersweet feeling that I could only manually summon her under such circumstances.

"I thought you were working today," Caroline muttered as I ran a cloth under the warm water and sauntered over to her, dabbing at the sweat on her brow, attempting to make her look – and smell – somewhat decent.

"By the looks of things, you weren't thinking at all," I sighed as she adverted her gaze elsewhere, away from me. Away from this conversation. "Caroline, it's only four o'clock. I'm not so naïve to think that you won't be drinking at all at, being twenty years old and living in Los Santos, but honestly? _Four o'clock_? On a Wednesday afternoon?"

"I don't want to talk about this right now," Caroline insisted. "I'm twenty years old, you're technically not my legal guardian anymore."

"Maybe not legally, but I'm your guardian as long as you're my little sister," I countered as I heard our doorbell ring. "I'll get that. You start cleaning."

"Um, I actually invited some friends over…" Caroline muttered, her confession trailing off as she hopped from the counter and began collecting empty bottles of Pisswasser. How she could drink so much of it, I wasn't sure. The smell alone was enough to deter me from it.

"How many is _some_ , Caroline?" I asked as I reached for the doorknob. Somewhere underneath the obnoxiously stereotypical party girl was someone who ultimately just longed for some type of social interaction, something I partially blamed myself for due to working long hours to ensure she had a roof over her head. She just didn't know it herself.

"Oh, you know…two or three."

As I opened the door, I noted the fact that four boys and a girl were standing outside. Two or three my ass.


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's note: A huge thanks to those of you that have reviewed, favorited, and/or followed _Postscript_! I'm very excited that there are some readers! I'll try to continue to update at a steady pace, at least a chapter a week. With that being said, here's chapter two!**

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post·script (pōstˌskript) _noun._ an additional remark at the end of a letter, after the signature and introduced by "P.S."

 **Chapter Two**

"It's just…sometimes I wish she'd spend more time with me instead of going out to the Vanilla Unicorn with her friends. Why does she go there, anyways? It's what she has me for. That's _basically_ cheating. I mean, I _know_ she's not sleeping with them or anything, but…"

I nodded intently, trying to feign interest at what Ashley was saying, even though it was difficult to pretend my mind wasn't elsewhere. Ashley wasn't exactly what I'd call a friend, and definitely not someone I enjoyed listening to complain about superficial issues over coffee and old sandwiches that had a weak bread-to-meat ratio. She was more of a close connection of sorts. We met during my brief college days, and I being a therapist and her a doctor, she referred clients to me for psychiatric services; in return, I sat and listened to whatever afflicted her fading romance with her wife, Tara. It was typical run-of-the-mill Los Santos stuff, despite how much Ashley denied it – Ashely married Tara looking for something to show off, Tara married Ashley for the money (which I'll admit, there was a lot of it). Ashley swore things between them were _different_ because Tara wasn't busty or blonde or stupid. In the end, it was all the same. Call a trashcan a rose and it still stinks.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Ashley groaned and ran a hand through her long auburn hair. "I just don't get it," she said, genuinely perplexed. "Am I overreacting? Maybe I'm just overreacting."

"Not at all," I responded, poking at my sandwich as Ashley's phone beeped. She let out deep sigh as she shuffled the contents of her designer bag, searching for the source of her displeasure. She retrieved her phone after what felt like an eternity, flipping through her text messages.

"I'm sorry, hun. I'm on call today and I have to head back early," she sighed ruefully. "Can we continue this some other time? I'll text you."

"That's fine!" I replied, eager for any type of a distraction from her ever-crumbling marriage. "Just text me and let me know." With that, Ashley shuffled off towards her car, leaving me alone with my coffee and stale sandwich. I gathered my few belongings and started the trek back to work. It wasn't a long or strenuous activity – the coffee shop was only a short distance from the office where I worked. Ashley had agreed to meet me closer to work, as she had a car while I did not. Call her the plethora of adjectives that I might, inconsiderate was not one of them.

...

Work, as it happened, consisted of rather dull and repetitive activity for the remainder of the day - reports, paperwork, jotting down quick notes about clients, and more paperwork. I finished rather quickly considering the workload, eager to get back to Caroline to ensure that she _had_ attended classes like she had begrudgingly assured me she would. Grabbing my purse, I flipped the lights off in my office, signaling the end of the long work day, and shuffled within my purse, searching for my keys. I found them hidden between my phone and my notepad and quickly stuck them in the brass doorknob, turning them briskly to lock the door.

Checking my phone as I made my way to the elevator, I found that I had two text messages and three missed calls from Caroline, a rare occurrence considering she didn't acknowledge my existence unless I either reached out to her first or was home at the same time she was. I unlocked my phone as I hit the button to call for the elevator and immediately checked the text messages first. Number one: _Hey sis. A favor?_ Number two, which I noted came after the missed calls: _i want to go to my friend traceys house today. i'll be home late._ As I reached the elevator, I typed back a quick reply. _Need to meet her parents first._ I waited. No response.

Stepping into the elevator, I tucked my phone back into my purse and sighed, running a hand through my short black hair, tucking it behind my ear. Caroline must have already been at Tracey's house, especially considering she didn't respond back immediately when I knew her phone was always in her hand or at least never far from her immediate reach. As the elevator reached the lobby of the building, I allowed myself one last look at my phone. No Caroline.

"Goodnight, Julie!" I chirped to the pretty blonde receptionist as I exited the building and stepped out into the cool night air. She flashed me a white toothed smile before turning back to jotting down whatever appointments she had scheduled that day. As I scanned traffic for a cab, I couldn't help but marvel at what made up this large city I inhabited. There was something about downtown Los Santos that felt like a dream. Maybe it was the eternal bustle of the night life, or how the lights from all the buildings and skyscrapers reflected down like large suns. I always found it beautiful, even if I didn't think of myself as a part of it all.

Hailing a cab, I allowed myself one last look at my phone. Still no Caroline. Muttering the address of our apartment as I climbed in the back seat of the cab, I dialed Caroline's number, pressing the phone to my ear. She answered on the third ring, confirming her guilt. She had been ignoring me after all.

"I'm at Tracey's." Caroline's voice was a barely audible whisper.

"Her parents. Now." The finality in my voice was met by a deafening silence before I heard someone shuffling around. I heard Caroline mutter a muted inaudible sentence before another voice said with annoyance, _what are you, twelve?_ I felt both anger and irritation rise in my throat as Caroline returned to the receiver and said, "Only her dad is home."

"Okay? Then put him on," I ordered. I could practically see Caroline roll her eyes as she called 'Mr. De Santa' to the phone. Tracey De Santa, was her new friend's name, then. I made a mental note to look up her Life Invader page once I made it home. No doubt she was another atypical busty blonde Los Santos clone that Caroline had chosen to latch on to and live vicariously through for the week.

"This is Mr. De Santa." The man on the other end of the line didn't sound too enthusiastic. I cleared my throat and tried to imitate my late mother as much as I could.

"Umm…hi. This is Vanessa, Caroline's older sister and current guardian…err, not guardian, because she's an adult, but she still lives with me, so I guess that makes me her guardian –"

"I get what you're saying," he said dryly, cutting me off.

"I just wanted to make sure Caroline was in a safe and secure environment for the night," I replied. "She has a few… _behavioral issues_ and I didn't want her somewhere that would enable the behavior, if that makes sense."

Mr. De Santa's voice seemed to soften, but only a bit. "Look, my Tracey is no stranger to trouble, but if it makes you feel better, I'll keep an eye on…Caroline, was it?"

"Yes, sir," I confirmed. "If you could, please, I'd really appreciate it. We're all we have and I don't want anything to happen to her."

"Alright then, I'll see what I can do." With that, the line went dead and I couldn't help but question whether Caroline was _really_ in good hands.

"At this point, she's already there, so what can I do?" I assured myself as the cab pulled in front of the apartment. I paid my fare and shuffled inside after unlocking the door. I knew I wouldn't be getting much sleep as I willed myself to my bed with my work clothes still on, checking my phone again to ensure Caroline hadn't attempted to contact me in the event of an emergency. No Caroline.


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Just as a quick clarification, the bar used in this chapter is a completely fabricated name and location.**

 **RedRose85, in response to your comment regarding Tracey, hopefully you'll think I'll do her justice in regards to straightening herself out! I can't give away too much right now, but you'll see!**

 **Thanks so much for reading, and here is the next chapter of Postscript!**

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post·script (pōstˌskript) _noun._ an additional remark at the end of a letter, after the signature and introduced by "P.S."

 **Chapter Three**

I awoke, slightly dazed, to the sound of my phone blaring Caroline's custom ringtone. I reached for it immediately, making sure to check the time. It was late, yet still too early for her to stop her drug fueled antics for the evening. Was she ready to come home already? I put the phone up to my ear as I answered, groggily managing to sputter, "Caroline?"

Her voice frantically screeched on the other end of the line, " _Please_ get your ass over here as fast as you can!" I could hear loud bangs in the background that sounded suspiciously like gunshots. I could feel the color drain from my face as I struggled to steady my racing heartbeat.

"Over where? Caroline, what's wrong? What's happening?" My voice grew more and more concerned with every syllable.

"Tracey and I went out drinking, and her dad showed up and now everyone is shooting at each other and –" She let out a terrified scream before she returned to the phone. "We're at a bar. I-I can't remember what it's called. It's small, down an alley. Tracey said it would be the best place to go because no one would think to look for us here."

That narrowed it down significantly. Los Santos was full of large clubs but the small hole-in-the-wall ones, those were few and far between. There was one in particular that was small and hidden in an alley: Hinks & Droes. Luckily, it wasn't too far from our apartment. It would be faster to walk there than to waste crucial time waiting for a cab.

Gathering my purse and sliding into a pair of tennis shoes, I immediately defied my legs that felt like they would give out at any second and took off at a sprint in the direction towards the bar. I decided to forgo the sidewalk and cut through various lawns and empty parking lots. I'd only been to this bar once so I didn't know the exact location, but by the sound of the gunshots in the distance as I drew closer, I knew I would find it quite easily. Sure enough, as I closed in, the gunshots grew louder and louder. I followed them until I made it to a small alley, narrow enough to only allow two or three people to walk shoulder to shoulder, with a door at the end with an awning over it that read _Hinks & Droes. _I ran inside immediately, the bouncer that typically guarded the front door missing to stop me from entering, more than likely, I assumed, to deal with the mess unfolding inside.

To call it a mess was an understatement. It was an all out warzone. Bullets were flying everywhere as I ducked beneath a table and scanned the room for Caroline. I couldn't tell who was shooting at what, and I didn't care to stick around long enough to find out. Caroline was my main priority, and as things were much more dire than I initially thought, I prayed she was still alive, not stricken by a stray bullet.

Moving around the table, still crouched, I pulled out my phone out and texted Caroline, _I'm here. Where are you?_ Her response came immediately: _behind the bar._ I skimmed the vicinity and found that the bar was located clear across the room, the flying bullets the only obstacle between my sister and I. As I realized I'd have to dodge the bullets in order to reach her, my legs felt like jelly and my heart raced erratically, warning me that this feat was one not easily done. "Caroline," I reminded myself, defying every bone in my body that willed me to flee. I had promised our late mother I would care for my sister in her absence and I intended to do just that, despite the fear coursing through my veins.

Deciding that straddling the perimeter of the room would be my best gamble considering all the action was happening in the center of the small bar, I took off on all fours towards where Caroline was, praying that I could inconspicuously make it to her without drawing attention to myself. The sound of the bullets was loud and rang in my ears like cannon fire, and my I felt my whole body tense as a bullet hit the wall right above where my head would have been had I decided to stay crouched. This was no place for Caroline to be, despite the types of situations she chose to involve herself in. I knew she was in over her head and prayed that this would be enough to make her turn over a new leaf - the drugs and alcohol, I could admit she handled moderately well. Gunfights…well this was too far, even for her.

I increased my pace, my knees aching as they hit the hard wood floor in rhythmic synchronization. I just needed to get to Caroline, I continued to remind myself. I was doing this for Caroline.

It felt like years passed before I finally reached the bar, guns still going off. I found Caroline huddled against the cabinet where the drinks were stored, on her knees with her arms covering her head. As I approached her, a bullet shattered a wine bottle above her, soaking her in red. She flinched but did not scream, shaking in fear. The color had drained from her tanned face, making her appear pale and sickly in the dim light.

"Caroline, I'm here," I said as I touched her shoulder, sitting beside her. "Where's Tracey?"

"She left with her brother. Her dad is still here - he's the one that started this shit show in the first place," she replied bitterly, throwing her arms around me as if I was the only thing anchoring her from going over the edge. "I just want to go home." Clutching her hand tightly, I allowed myself a glance over the bar, trying to discern how we'd get out of this. Getting in, that was the easy part. Getting out was a whole new ball game.

Finally allowing myself to analyze the situation now that I was with Caroline, I came to the realization that there were four tattooed men shooting at a middle aged man hiding on the other side of the bar, behind a pillar. Sweat drenched the middle aged man's face as he aimed his pistol at one of his adversaries, hitting them square in the chest. The tattooed man fell to the ground in a bloody heap, leaving three of his peculiarly similarly dressed allies still standing, fueled by more hatred for the man that had taken out their friend.

"That man, that's Tracey's dad?" I asked Caroline. She confirmed with a nod.

"That's her dad, Michael."

Watching as they shot at Michael, I knew there was no chance that Caroline and I could sneak out undetected. Sneaking in alone, it had been easy for me to make it to her undetected as they were too preoccupied with Michael to notice; but now, there was two of us, and two was easier to spot than one, especially with Caroline's sequined dress glinting in the light originating from the barrels of the guns. We would be walking targets, and while I wasn't sure whether we'd be shot at, I wasn't willing to risk Caroline's life to find out.

This left two options: stay and hide out until the gunfight was over and risk being hit by a stray bullet, or end the gun fight prematurely by helping Michael take out the remainder of his adversaries. While the former of the two was the right thing to do morally, I knew that the latter meant less gunfire. Less gunfire meant less opportunity for Caroline to be hit.

Turning back to my sister and allowing myself to return to our wine-soaked hiding place, I said firmly, "Caroline, I'm gonna go help Mr. De Santa. Stay put, okay?"

What little color that was left in my sister's face drained immediately. She grabbed my hand in a vice grip that rivaled a python's. "No, no, no. Please don't. Let's just leave."

"Caroline, we can't 'just leave.' This is the only way. Either we're sitting ducks or we try to help Tracey's dad, seeing as he's the least likely to try and kill us." Caroline's grip loosened on my hand, signaling her disapproving consent at my hasty plan.

"Please be careful," she begged. I smiled at her, unsure of whether this would be the last time I'd see her.

"It'll be okay," I promised sincerely. "I'll get you out of here." With that, I crawled out from our hiding space, ducking between barstools in an attempt to get a better angle on the situation. The gun of the fallen tattooed man had landed within arm's reach of me; however, I knew attempting to shoot would only make matters worse. I had never shot at anything in my life and knew I would miss if I tried, making myself an easy target. Besides, referring back to my morals, I couldn't allow myself to take another life, despite the fact that I was helping someone else to do it.

Distraction, then. Judging by how good of a shot Michael was, I knew all he'd need was a second of cease fire to allow himself a chance to hit his remaining targets. Crawling back to where Caroline hid, I grabbed one of the smaller bottles of wine and hurriedly crawled back to my space between the barstools, Caroline not uttering a word to me as I did so. Mustering whatever strength was left, I tossed the bottle of wine as far away from me as I could, towards the opposite side of the room. It shattered somewhere in the center of the floor, leaking its contents everywhere. The remaining tattooed men turned towards where the wine bottle lay shattered on the floor. I heard two loud bangs in tandem and seconds later, two of the three men fell to the floor in heaps, blood soaking their shirts. This left one last man to deal with, but unfortunately he had discovered the source of the distraction: me.

"You little bitch," he growled, raising his gun towards me. As he moved his finger to the trigger, I heard two simultaneous bangs as he shot at me and Michael shot at him. The force from Michael's bullet forced the tattooed man backwards, the bullet intended for me narrowly grazing my cheek instead of hitting its mark. I felt a sharp sting as blood trickled down to my chin; it hurt, but I was relieved that this was finally over.

Michael turned towards me, gun still in hand as he approached me, leaving his own hiding spot. "Hey, thanks for the distraction," he said as he holstered his pistol. "You might wanna get outta here before LSPD shows up."

"You said you'd keep an eye on her," I spat at him as I stood up and crossed the threshold of the bar, finding Caroline alive but shaken up, struggling to get to her feet and steady her shaking kneecaps. "Look at her. Look at my sister."

"I did what I could," he responded defensively. "Things could've turned out much worse. She could've left this place in a body bag."

" _She almost did!_ " I exclaimed angrily. "Do you not understand the severity of the situation? My sister almost got _killed_ because of you!"

"Your sister is _alive_ because of me!" he shouted back at me, matching my tone and ferocity. "I saved her damn life and this is the thanks I get?"

" _Saved her?_ " I repeated. "A bullet barely missed her by inches but you _saved her_!" He let out an angry groan before he turned away from me.

"Look, I told you I'd do what I could, and I did. Just leave before LSPD gets here." With that, he exited the bar, sirens wailing in the distance. I grabbed Caroline's arm, steadying her as we made our way out of the bar, taking the sidewalk as we made our way home. Her legs shook and she stumbled as she attempt to walk in her six inch heels. Once I assured that we'd made it a decent distance away from the bar, I allowed her to sit on the sidewalk as I pulled out my cell phone and called a cab. It arrived in minutes.

Caroline didn't say a word as I corralled her into the cab, sliding into the seat beside her. She clenched her shaking fists in her lap as she looked out the window, elsewhere from me. She still didn't speak or object as I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to me. We both knew I'd have to parentally address the situation eventually, but for now, I was too grateful that she was alive. The lecture could wait.


End file.
